Late March – Two days after the Brenford motion
Christopher – The Return of the Wolf
The morning light in the Ministry was thin and gray, washing the marble halls in the color of ash.
Christopher Cross stood at the center of his office, coat discarded, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, but the energy that coiled around him was sharper than rest could ever give.
"Has the petition reached the papers?" he asked without looking up.
His aide, young and pale, nodded. "Yes, my lord. The Times, The Tribune, and The Herald. They've all printed excerpts from Lord Suffox's motion — but the editorials lean toward you."
"Good."
Christopher walked toward the tall window overlooking Whitehall. Below, carriages crawled through puddles; umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers.
He watched the city for a moment — this city that had nearly devoured him, this city that now whispered his name again with wary fascination.
